


I Will Return to You

by poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Gen, Jossed, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-26
Updated: 2006-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 20:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4891297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't love at first sight.  A love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Return to You

**Author's Note:**

> Written LONG before episode 4.03 "In the Beginning"; completely Jossed now. Still a damn good story, imho.

It's not true all those things about love at first sight.

Or, okay, they _are_ but it's only really true with your first love and he's the bastard that left her here for something younger, newer-a _station wagon_ , for Christ's sake, clunky and waddling like his new, pregnant housewife-and she doesn't believe in that shit anymore.

It isn't love at first sight.

Oh, he plays a good game, coming up on her all slow and gentle-like, running those strong skillful hands across her hood, slinking over the chrome on her doors, giving her a saucy pat on her trunk. He's smooth, this one. He has the look down, coy glances from under dark eyelashes-not wanting to seem too eager, too needy-but she can tell from the way his tongue swipes fast over his lips, the way he pats her trunk again, just like….no. She's not going to think of him. He got himself another woman and another car and she's yesterday's junker. She's not going to let herself get hurt like that again.

He takes her for a spin. Of course he does; they all like their test-drives, just before they dump you back on the lot, saying stuff like _too expensive_ and _not the best shape_ and-worst, because it gets her hopes up- _well, let me think about it_. Marty the pimple-faced pimp-who hasn't the _least_ idea of how to treat a lady of her caliber-is talking nineteen to the dozen, slick patter and even slicker lies, nervously patting her dashboard as if to tell her: _good girl, be a good girl so I can sell you off, get you off my hands, get rid of you._

Just to piss him off, she coughs a little, chugs. Marty's eyes get a little wider, his horsy teeth flash a little whiter and she laughs to herself. But him-the cool rider-he just laughs with her and tromps the gas a little harder. Most of the time, they're careful of her at this stage, tentative, fumbling, groping over her like they don't know what to do with good Detroit steel. This guy-he takes one look at her and thinks he knows her-taking the curves smooth and fast, accelerating halfway through just to hear her purr.

She hates him.

She knows she's not pretty any more, sun-faded and old, one of her headlights gouged out, her taillights weak and unreliable, blinking pinkly. Her seats have spread and flattened, dull with neglect and the layer of dust on her dashboard fills her with an agonized shame. She is a fallen woman, only fit for rejects like Marty and his horny, horrible friends who park their fat asses on her hood and spill their beer on her fenders and talk shit about girls they never had.

But he just keeps humming a tune over Marty's noise and tapping her wheel like he knows her. Like it's them against Marty.

He's such a jerk. Arrogant. Full of himself.

They pull back into the lot in a sleek swish of tires and she sighs, resigned to yet another rejection, yet another month drowsing in the sun trying to forget.

"So what do you think?" Marty asks in his hearty asshole voice and she cringes. When he talks to _her_ in that tone of voice, she tries not to do it, just on general principle, the whining schmuck.

The dude rubs his chin thoughtfully. "I don't know," he says. "Price is kinda high."

Jerk.

Asshole.

Don't want you anyway.

"Oh, but she's worth it," Marty says, clanging the flat of his hand against her roof noisily. She winces and the dude winces and that's the moment that she thinks maybe… But no. No. She's not going to do this. Not again. "She's a solid car, this one. And with a little bit of love, just as pretty as you please. Get you where you need to go _and_ look good doing it."

"Yeah, I don't know," he says, scrubbing the back of his neck and she feels stupid for getting her hopes up even that much…but then he turns a little, like he's looking at her and she swears to Saint Christopher, he winks.

"Well, why don't we talk about it," Marty says, starting to sweat. That's when she knows the dude's got him.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Oh you have _got_ to be kidding me, John," the old man says, coming down the driveway as the dude-John-tucks her into the curb. "What fresh hell is this?"

"This?" John slides across her seat to the passenger side window and leans out, smiling easy as you please, stroking across her door with blunt fingers. They're callused, not smooth and she contrasts them with _his_ fingers which were always manicured and soft. Roughneck. "This here is my new girl."

"Looks like she's an _old_ girl to me," the other one growls-and who the fuck is he to be talking about old?-and spits on the ground near her front tire. If she could pull it out of the way, she would. "Christ, John; tell me you didn't waste actual money on this?"

"It's my money," John says and the tap of his fingers on her side becomes agitated for exactly three seconds before he stops and pets in apology. She's not mollified. She should have known. "Grandpa left it to me."

"Not for you to squander on rustbucket muscle cars," the old man retorts, jabbing one finger in her direction and she feels a certain amount of outrage. Rust bucket? _Rust bucket?_ She knows she's not quite at her prime, but that's no reason to go calling names. "That money was for school, for your college education!"

John sighs and slumps back in her seat. Her upholstery groans a bit; he's not big, but he's solid for such a skinny thing. "Pops, I told you before I'm not going to college. That… That whole life's not for me."

"John Avery Winchester, I am _not_ hearing this from you! Now you take this damn car back and you do it right now." Pops turns and starts stalking back up the sidewalk, his slippers making angry hisses against the concrete.

"Sir!" John yelps, stricken and starts scrambling out of her in a thresh of knees and elbows. He's halfway up the sidewalk to the dull clapboard house before he remembers and runs back to grab the key out of her ignition. He slams the door too hard and goes running after his father.

And see this is the kind of crap she knew would happen. Stupid kid just fucking around, no sense of responsibility or consideration and she lets herself get all excited for thirty seconds and then reality kicks her in the oil pan.

Stupid kid. First chance she gets? She's totally stalling out on him.

~ ~ ~ ~

The sun's barely over the horizon and her fluids are still cold when he comes sneaking out of the house like a thief. He slips the key into her and she resents the familiarity, grumbling and growling.

"C'mon baby," he breathes over her wheel, goosing her gas. "We've got a lot to do today."

Oh yeah. She knows what _he's_ got to do. Drop her off at the lot and back into the sweaty greasy hands of Marty-the-jerk.

Then John's fingers find _that_ spot, that sweet spot on her wheel where _his_ pinky would curl around and caress, almost like a tickle and she jumps and shivers, engine starting up almost out of pure reflex.

John's smile is dazzling and he murmurs, "That's my girl," before putting her into gear and guiding her out into the street.

Hmph. She'll show him.

The minute they get on the highway, she's cutting out. Swear to God.

~ ~ ~ ~

Except they don't get on the highway. They drive just a few blocks to another house where a man in a threadbare T-shirt, sagging boxers and a ragged terrycloth robe wanders down to the curb and stands with John while scratching his belly idly. His feet are bare but he's got on a baseball cap.

"Isn't she a beauty?" John asks, rocking back and forth on his heels. He's grinning and she wonders if he's going to pass her off to this new man like she's some light bottomed roadster, revving her engines for anyone who'll drive her.

"A-yeah, that she is," the other man agrees, tilting his head at her. "What'd your dad say?"

"Aaah." John makes an embarrassed hand waving gesture. "He's still hung up on that whole college thing. He thinks I should take her back."

Other guy laughs. "Yeah, that sounds like Pops. Whatcha gonna do?"

John scratches the back of his neck. Yes, tell us, she thinks. What are you going to do, John? "Get yelled at, mostly," John says with a grin.

That's not a sigh of relief. That is absolutely, positively _not_ a sigh of relief.

"Aw, man, John…he's gonna kill you."

"Maybe," John laughs, shoving his fists in his pockets. "But look at her. Who wouldn't die for a car like that?"

She can't help it; she revs.

Just a little.

It doesn't mean anything; don't read too much into it.

~ ~ ~ ~

John and the Dude-whose name turns out to be Jerry-stand around for a while looking at her, talking about her, touching her with light, reverent hands. It feels good. It feels _really_ good.

Not that she's noticing or being swayed or anything. But she might as well make the best of it, right?

Around lunch time they break out the beers and the tools. John tells Jerry in no uncertain terms that there will be no drinking in _her_ , on her or within three feet of her. Jerry groans and grins and fakes tripping like he's going to spill his beer all over her (bastard) but she notices he respects the line.

John cranks her radio, sweet rock guitars and thumping drums and booted feet keeping time. It's a beautiful day, the sun brightening over her and warming her paint, her fluids. John sings tunelessly under his breath and Jerry does guitar solos with a wrench.

They change her oil, her transmission fluid, coolant. The new fluids tickle and soothe. Jerry produces a handful of spark plugs from the shadowy garage. She's not made of…okay, she _is_ made of steel, but she's not impervious.

She zips and hums to herself, crackling under her warmed metal skin all the way home…back to John's house. John smiles at nothing and hums along with her and the radio. "It was a good day, baby," he says to her, running his fingers over her dashboard. "Wasn't it?"

And…okay. Maybe it wasn't completely horrible.

Doesn't mean she's changed her mind about him.

~ ~ ~ ~

Pops is waiting at the curb when John pulls up, red and unshaven and angry. "I thought I told you to take this damned thing back to the dealership," he says before her wheels are even snugged up to the cement.

 _Thing_ , this time. She coughs and sputters and John smoothes his hand over her seat, soothing.

"And I told you I wasn't going to do that, Pops," John says steadily and she thinks she's probably the only one aware of how his leg jitters on her brake pedal.

"I'm not used to having my orders disobeyed, John," Pops says in a low dangerous voice that makes a shiver run through _her_ frame.

John swallows, loud in the stillness. "I understand that, sir," John answers slowly. "But it's my money and my car and…with all due respect, sir, I'm not taking her back."

Pops' eyes narrow into little bands of flesh. "We'll see about that," he says, still in that slash-the-tires voice. He turns and goes back into the house, weaving just a little.

It's not until the door closes behind Pops that John turns off her ignition and leans his head and forearms against her wheel.

~ ~ ~ ~

It's late and her engine is almost cool; she lingers on the edge of dozing, but she can't help but luxuriate in her new headlight, the new bulbs in her tail, the smooth clean feel of her paint, sleek with wax. John used a diaper; a real and for true diaper. She always thought that old Corvette had been telling tales about shit like that.

John and Pops are arguing in the house. Again.

She can't hear everything but sharp fragments of words and the thundering rumble of their deep voices carry out the windows open to the windy summer night.

They're arguing about her. As usual.

Pops kicked her the other night. Not hard, and he was only wearing the same pair of shaggy carpet sneakers she first saw him in, but for a moment, she thought John was actually going to hit him, fists balled at his sides.

After their curbside blowout, John had polished the smudge from her hubcap over and over, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. He doesn't mean it."

And though she still doesn't like him, even though she's just waiting for him to give in to Pops' demands, to decide she's not worth all this hassle, she ticked her engine at him softly until the sobs of his breath eased and quieted.

~ ~ ~ ~

If she had hands, she'd have pushed the skanky bitch's ass off her hood, but she doesn't so she can only fume in impotent anger as the mini-skirted whore lounges and lolls across her, one white vinyl boot kicking without rhythm against her front panel.

Go. Away, she thinks, wishing John had left her engine on so she could rev her displeasure. Loudly. But of course, John would never be that careless with her.

John is _never_ careless with her, which just makes the touch of _this_ bitch all the more irritating, reminding her of the tartlet _he'd_ married, screechy voiced and with long garish fingernails that she kept digging into the armrests.

"Jessica." John's voice cracks out across the sidewalk and both she and the witch sprawled across her hood jump. "You wanna get the fuck off my car?"

"Oh, come on, Johnny-boy…don't be like that." The slut leans back in a pose she probably thinks is provocative, breasts out, boot heel scraping over the paint. White-painted lips pout. "Don't you want to take me for a ride?"

Okay, she's a car and _she_ caught the half-entendre there. That's just sad.

John sounds like his dad as he grabs skank-girl by her scrawny upper arms and hauls her bodily off the hood. "What I want is for you to get off my car and the hell out of my life, Jessica. I told you. We're finished."

"Aw, c'mon," Jessica whines, dangling from John's hands. "You didn't really _mean_ that, did you, baby?" Jessica's voice lowers, becomes breathier. "Didn't we have some good times, Johnny-boy?"

"Sure," John says. "Right in between you screwing Red Hatton and…what was it? Oh yeah, _half the fucking football team_. The pictures were a nice touch, I thought."

"God, you're such a tight ass." Jessica scowls, pushing away from him hard and then teetering a moment on her heels. "We're not married, John. You never put a diamond on my finger and until you do, you don't get to say what I do. _Or_ who I fuck. It's not like when your dad was growing up and I'm not like your precious m…"

"Shut up!" It feels like the air around them drops several degrees and Jessica squeaks as John's hands tighten on her scrawny arms and he shakes her a little. "Don't you even say her fucking name, don't you say a damn _word_ about her!"

Jessica twists like an eel out of John's hands. "Fucker!" Jessica spits and John puts up a hand, catching it mostly on his palm. "You're lucky I don't call the police."

John sighs and goes over to her, easing one hip down on her hood. She rocks up on her shocks, supporting him. His shoulders are slumped with tiredness. "Just go, Jessica. It's over. Fuck whoever you want. I don't care. I'm just done with you fucking me."

"You just don't know what you're missing, John Winchester." Jessica stomps one booted foot like an overgrown and overly made-up child. "Thinking you're so high and mighty when you ain't no better than the rest of us. You weren't even that good anyway!"

"Then it's no loss, is it?" John asks softly and she's aware of his knuckles skimming her side, back and forth, back and forth.

~ ~ ~ ~

Okay. Maybe she likes him a little.

Shut up.

~ ~ ~ ~

Pops kicks him out that night. Or so she guesses when the night's argument culminates in John tearing out the door with a backpack in one hand and an old sleeping bag under the other. Pops thunders up behind John to stand in the doorway. Pops shakes one fist and says, "And don't even think about coming back!"

"No problem," John mutters, head down. She thinks he might be sniffling a bit, but she's been a man's car since she rolled off the line; if he is, she won't tell anybody.

Pops doesn't hear him-can't possibly at that distance-but he shouts again, louder, "If you leave now…don't you even dare _think_ about coming back!"

"I won't!" John shouts finally, fumbling the key scratchily over her lock and piling in. He doesn't slam the door though. She can tell he wants to, blow out some of that anger, but he doesn't.

"It's just a car, John!" Pops hammers on the aluminum of the screen, making it rattle. "I'm talking about your future, here!"

John doesn't say anything. Just shoves the key in the ignition (ow) and goes. First stop is the bar. She's been here with him twice; once when John was just hanging out with Jerry and their other friend Ned and once to pick up Pops, stumbly-blind with drink and mumbling softly and incoherently all the way home about someone named Irma while John drove white-knuckled and silent.

He eases her in around the back where fewer people park, in between the bordering field and a aging Mustang; pats her trunk and goes inside where he stays for hours until she's cold and drowsing.

John's pretty blotto when he finally stumbles out. The door swings too wide, slamming into the brick with a sound like a backfire. John sways in the doorway for a moment, blinking, then makes his wavering way across to her. He trips in the gravel and slams both hands down on her, catching himself. "Sorry, sorry," he says worriedly and sticks his face very close to her paint, peering. He polishes his sleeve in circles across her skin, erasing non-existent smudges.

It's okay, she murmurs, audible in the soft sigh as she settles on her struts. I'm fine.

Finally John sighs in a breezy exhalation of beer and clambers in. He's gentle as he starts her up and his pinky rubs and rubs against that smooth, worn sweet spot on her wheel until she damn near purrs. John drives and drives and drives, muttering to himself (and maybe crying, but just a little bit and no one has to know) and hitting himself in the thigh with one closed up fist.

The streets swish by under her tires and a part of her wants to say to him, _Just do it. Go on and take me back. I'm steel. I'll be okay_. But she can't. Because like it or not, she's _his_ now.

After a while, John's eyes start to droop. His thighs get loose, his hands sloppy. He's falling asleep. "S'just you and me, girl," he slurs and his next breath comes out on a snore.

His boot is easy on the gas; she lets herself drift sideways onto the shoulder. The overgrown grass of the verge drags on her undercarriage and she slows, eventually coming to a gentle standstill.

~ ~ ~ ~

Well, it's not like she was going to let him _die._

~ ~ ~ ~

It's about a week later when John drives her back to Pops'.

He's been bunking at Jerry's most nights, or sometimes curling up in her back seat with the sleeping bag pulled up over his head. Days, he drives a lot, not going anywhere in particular.

"John," Pops sighs when he comes to the door. He doesn't open the screen.

John shuffles his feet on the concrete of the steps, head down. "Joined up today," he mumbles.

"Ah, _John_ ," Pops says again.

"Look, I know you…you and Mom wanted me to go to college. But I just…that's not the life for me. That's not the man I am."

"You're only barely a man yet, John."

"I can do some good in the Marines, Pops. You're always talking about what a great country this is…what's wrong with wanting to defend it?"

" _It's not this country that needs defending!_ " Pops hisses.

John hunches his shoulders. "Well, I'm going," he says. "I gave my word and I signed my name and I'm shipping out at the end of the week."

Wait…wait. What? Shipping out? What is he talking about?

"Well. Is that why you came? To tell me you're going?"

"Naw." John shuffles again. "Look, I know how you feel about the car…"

"Aw, Christ, not this again…"

"She's all I got, Pops," John says, an edge in his tone. Then he slumps. "She's all I got. I'm just… Jerry can't keep her. He'll come and do the maintenance, drive her around a bit to keep her running, but Heather won't let him keep her there and I can't… I can't lose her, Pops. She's… She's my everything."

"John," Pops sighs but he pushes the door to. "C'mon in. I think we need to talk."

Wait. _Wait_. What…what about _her_?

~ ~ ~ ~

It's late when John comes out again. Pops follows him to the door and offers gruffly, "You can stay here tonight, if you want."

John shakes his head. "Nah. I told Jerry I'd swing by and help him put some shelves together for Heather. 'Preciate it, though."

Pops' nods. "Well all right. You just…you come on by before you go, John. We'll have dinner. Do it proper."

John nods.

She is stiff and resentful when he gets in. She lets the starter scrape and whine, fuming. Leaving her. He's _leaving_ her. She can't believe she was so _stupid_.

"Aw baby," John whispers. "Not you too. Please…" His voice breaks and his head ducks. "Please, baby. Please, don't."

Reluctantly her engine starts up with a muted and rough roar. "Thank you," John says, heartfelt, patting her dashboard. 'Thank you, baby. You're still my girl."

Yeah. Whatever.

~ ~ ~ ~

They don't go back to Jerry's. John rolls up in the back seat and falls asleep, stroking idly across the seat back. "I need to do this," he murmurs-to himself or her, she doesn't know. "It'll be a good thing. It's for the best. He'll see."

"He'll see."

~ ~ ~ ~

The cold moves in quickly, as if drawn by her mood. She sits on Pops' lawn and dreams of snow.

John is gone.

John's been gone for two weeks.

John's been gone for two weeks.

Pops walks past her every morning and every night like she's not even there. It's fine. She doesn't mind. She feels like she's barely there. She wonders if this is how it happens with old cars, the ones that don't talk any more, the ones that are barely more than the gas and fire and metal that moves them.

Jerry's come twice to take her out, drive her around. He feels different. Strange. He thumps her wheel with the heel of his hand when he gets cut off and shouts curses. He is heavy on the gas and late on the brake.

He's not John.

Fuck John, anyway.

~ ~ ~ ~

John's been gone four months when Pops opens her door, sometime close to dawn.

He crawls inside and slams the door behind himself. It wakes her up the rest of the way, cold and grumpy. Pops fumbles the key into the ignition but doesn't turn it, his hand falling slackly into his lap.

"Cold as a witch's tit out here," Pops grumbles. "Must be crazy."

She doesn't disagree with him. On either count.

"What happens when you get old, you know. Bladder turns into a peanut. Can't sleep through the damn night." He huffs and sighs, moving around in the seat like he can't get comfortable. She squeaks irritably on her springs, but he ignores it.

Pops sits and shivers and she wonders what he's doing here, in her. He doesn't like her. He's never liked her. She's just waiting for the day he decides to do 'what's best for John' and sell her off for scrap.

"God, what was he thinking?" Pops wonders aloud after so long she thought he might have fallen asleep.

She thinks he means her again, his thumb making agitated taps against the bottom of her wheel. John does that too, when he's upset. When he's happy, John'll mark out the drum beat on the top of the wheel and with both thumbs.

Fuck. She doesn't want to be reminded of John. She doesn't want to think about anything. She wishes he'd go away.

"He's going to get his damn fool self killed over there."

Oh.

Not her after all.

Pops sighs and leans forward a little to turn her key halfway. The radio-last tuned by Jerry-starts blaring. Pops jumps and fumbles with the dial, spinning until he finds a station broadcasting the news.

_"…dent Nixon's plan to remove another forty-five thousand troops by February first. In other news…"_

"God, let him be one of them," Pops breathes, head leaning back. "A man shouldn't outlive his son."

Unexpectedly, he pets her dashboard, his fingers rougher than John's but just as light. "It'll be all right, girl. You'll see. We'll wait and he'll be home with us before you know it. You wait and see. He's coming home. I feel it." He puts his head down on the wheel. "You and me. He'll come home to us. We'll wait together, okay?"

If she could, she'd nod. Hard and vigorous. Yeah, she thinks. John will come home. And then he'll never leave her and she'll never be alone again. They'll wait, her and Pops.

John will come home.

Wait and see.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2006 spn_gleeweek. Beta duties by mona1347, sixersfan and quietdiscerning, with my thanks.


End file.
